


9 to 5

by Delphi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, First Time, Multi, Orgy, Sex Magic, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 11:19:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kingsley Shacklebolt’s guide to being a good employee: When your superior officers tell you to jump, you ask how high. When they tell you to run, you ask how far. And when they tell you to report to an orgy, you ask if you should bring some light refreshments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	9 to 5

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2012 round of Kink Bingo. Kink: Orgies and Decadence

Kingsley had been a full-fledged Auror with the MLE for a little over three years when he opened his locker one morning and found a coin sitting on the top shelf. 

He was on second shift and had arrived with a comfortable fifteen minutes to spare in order to change into his uniform before reporting for duty. No one else would be in for another five minutes or so, leaving him alone and perplexed when he spotted the little bronze disc that had assuredly not been there when he’d left work the evening before.

His first reaction was, of course, to sweep the surrounding area for hexes. When it came up clean, he rummaged through the tidy confines of his locker, ascertaining that nothing else was there that shouldn't be and everything that should be there was. Then he picked up the coin and examined it. It was a blank Knut—an unremarkable piece the likes of which might come with a board game or a household divination set. The sort of thing you’d pull out when you needed to cast lots. 

At that point, his brain caught up with the situation and helpfully reminded him that it was the Spring Equinox.

“Hm,” he said. Then he put on his uniform, tucked the coin in his pocket, and went to sign in.

The Auror Office was its usual buzzing mid-morning hive of activity. The second shift trickled in as a few lingering third-shifters finished up paperwork or passed case files on to their first-shift equivalents. Correspondence zipped through the pneumatic tubes above, and Himself—Department Head Scrimgeour—was having a noisy disagreement via Floo with the higher-ups that was only barely muffled by his office door. 

Kingsley stopped in front of the large chalkboard roster that took up nearly the full length and width of one wall. He signed in and then scanned the complicated arrangement of shifts and cases and Wizengamot appearances until he reached the notation he was looking for. _Renewal of Wards, 1800 hrs, General Purpose Room B_. 

John signed in beside him and then likewise scanned the schedule. He was holding something tightly in his right hand. His gaze settled on the six o’clock entry, and then he and Kingsley exchanged mildly embarrassed looks.

Kingsley shrugged. It was the whim of chance. From what he understood, the lottery went through the unattached senior staff first and then the juniors until the requisite number of “volunteers” was reached. Everyone had to do his or her part at the Ministry, and though the single-shift departments usually took care of the bulk of the annual resetting of the wards, the responsibility for the sacrifice always fell to the Aurors. They dealt with odd situations as a matter of course. 

Just part of the job, he supposed.

Nonetheless, the coin sat heavily in his pocket as the morning and afternoon saw him following up on yesterday’s attempted break-in at the London branch of Ollivanders, responding to an underage sorcery violation in Surrey, and then breaking up a duel in Hogsmeade that had stemmed from a dispute over the possession of an angora goat. You had to put your life into boxes to succeed in this line of work. Your personal life could be a dangerous distraction when you were out on the street, and dragging cases home with you never ended well. Kingsley was usually good at that kind of compartmentalising, but while he didn’t consciously dwell on what was going to happen that evening, he found himself with a tense stomach and a restless energy in his limbs. Perhaps fittingly, he reflected at one point, it was somewhere between first-date jitters and the nerves he always experienced right before his bi-annual performance review. 

It was three o’clock before he managed to pop back to the office long enough for tea. He helped himself to a lukewarm coffee, a wilted sandwich, and some biscuits from the cart before taking a seat next to John in the break room. John nodded hello while slurping up a carton of takeaway noodles, and across the table, Alice gave him a distracted hum as she frowned over an incident report and made short and messy work of a pastry. 

Moody was going on very loudly about something out in the cubicles, but that was part of the daily office din, and Kingsley thought nothing of it until the break room door flew open in and Moody peered in at all of them.

“Come on, out with it,” he said. “I’ve got four accounted for. Who else got stuck with wards duty tonight?”

“Isn’t that supposed to be confidential?” John mumbled around a mouthful of noodles.

Moody’s eyes narrowed. “Scratch that,” he said. “I’ve got five accounted for. What about you, Moon? Will we be graced with your lovely presence?”

Alice continued scribbling at her report, but held up her left hand, flashing the shiny new wedding band on her third finger.

"Frank could come too," Moody said, his tone hopeful.

Two of Alice’s fingers went down.

Moody snorted. "Anyone seen Vance?"

“I think she’s out on that Smith debacle,” Kingsley said, disposing of his paper cup and tucking his packet of biscuits in his pocket before following Moody out of the break room. When the door had closed behind him, he resigned himself to a dose of embarrassment for the greater good and asked, voice low, “So am I supposed to bring anything tonight?”

Moody let out a surprised laugh. “You haven’t got a bad face for poker—I wouldn’t have guessed it. And what’s this? Are we talking a bottle of wine or some sort of newfangled marital aid?”

Kingsley spared himself a moment of wishing the floor would open up beneath him and then shrugged, having not been raised to show up to a social event empty-handed. 

“Let me give you some advice, Shacklebolt, my lad,” Moody said, patting him on the back in an avuncular fashion. “Never pay out of pocket for anything when you’re on the clock. If you bring chocolates, charge them as a work expense. And if you bring flowers, Himself’s partial to orchids.”

The rest of the afternoon was measured in paperwork and cups of tea. It was Kingsley’s habit to keep an eye out as he typed his reports so that he had time to slow down to a two-finger hunt-and-peck whenever someone passed his cubicle. Letting it be known you could type properly was a foolish disclosure for anyone who did not wish to be stuck with everyone else’s reports. Today, however, he found himself stopping altogether and stealing a glance at everyone who passed, wondering who else would be going down to General Purpose Room B at six o’clock.

The senior staff drew particular scrutiny. Proudfoot? No, he was married, and so was Savage. Robards was a possibility, but he had such an unshakable air of Good Auror amiability when he wasn’t giving junior officers a bollocking that it was impossible to tell whether he had anything pressing on his mind. McKinnon—she of the high-heeled boots that had been making all the tea boys wobbly in the knees for decades—did look a little pleased with herself at the moment, but then, she might have been fresh from a coroner call. 

Himself stepped out of his office, and Kingsley quickly turned back to his work. This time, his faltering typing had nothing to do with protective colouring as he thought back to what Moody had said. Surely Scrimgeour was exempt from the lottery. There had to be some sort of special clause for the purposes of decorum. And fairness. And junior officers ever being able to look their most superior of superiors in the eye ever again. 

Kingsley drew a deep breath. They were all professionals here.

He stayed on past the official end of his shift, which wasn’t out of the ordinary. Taking an empty lift down rather than the stairs up was, however. The lift made a speedy descent, riling up the butterflies in his stomach.

General Purpose Room B sat at the very bottom of the Ministry building. It was a large, circular room built of sarsen stones with a very high ceiling that gathered in at the centre to a long stone chimney that ran through the entire Ministry like a backbone, open at the top to a distant pinprick of twilight sky. At the moment, it was unfurnished save for a table that had been pushed against the far wall and a collection of neatly distributed infirmary blankets and pillows in the middle of the room. 

Moody had beaten him downstairs, and he was currently leaning against the table, talking to Robards and McKinnon about the Flannery murder. A cold cauldron sat behind him with a stack of paper cups beside it. 

Scrimgeour was, as Kingsley had feared, also in attendance, and was currently engaged in drawing a wide chalk circle and associated runes around the arrangement of blankets. He paused in his drawing, consulted the slim book in his hand, and then drew another rune.

“Auror Shacklebolt,” Scrimgeour acknowledged briskly, still examining his work, and then as the door opened again, “Auror Dawlish, Auror Vance.”

Kingsley turned as John and Emmeline entered, the latter seemingly unruffled and the former a little pink around the ears. Emmeline made a beeline for the table, leaving Kingsley and John to follow in her wake. Upon closer inspection, the cauldron proved to be filled with a chilled potion of a distinctive magenta hue. Kingsley had confiscated enough bottles of the stuff from unlicensed vendors to identify it as Scarlet Mandragora. 

Scrimgeour examined his pocket watch and then eyed the circle critically as the pinprick of light from the sky above slowly faded out. “That should do it. Shall we?”

The potion was ladled out and distributed by Robards, and Kingsley momentarily flashed back to the department Christmas party and the punch that had found itself spiked by three separate individuals. At least there weren’t any xerography machines down here. 

He sipped the stuff carefully. Being both a healthy young man in his twenties and not the type to attend revels, he’d never sampled it before. It was surprisingly tasty; the comparison to punch hadn’t been that far off. It fizzed a little where it touched his tongue on the first hesitant sip. It was sweet and spicy, smelling of cinnamon and myrrh, and beneath that, something sharp that made the blood vessels in his nose dilate slightly as he breathed it in.

“Bottoms up!” Moody said, flicking the end of Kingsley’s cup and sending the whole dose down his throat. 

Punch, but likewise spiked. It was like swallowing fire. What had started as a fizz turned into searing heat as it slid down. He sputtered and coughed, glaring at Moody. The potion’s effects were almost immediate. He felt as if it had bypassed his stomach entirely and was trickling down into his loins, bringing with it a hot, heavy weight that settled in his cock. His nipples hardened at the faintest brush of his clothing as he turned to set the empty cup on the table. His palms began to sweat. 

“All metal items are to be placed in the box under the table, please,” Scrimgeour said before knocking back his share of the potion in one neat shot. “Please inspect your person for any and all such materials. This includes coins, jewellery, hairpins, and any other...pinnings.”

At that, he seemed to cast a significant glance at Emmeline, who smiled sheepishly. 

“Forgot about my underwire last year,” she said to Kingsley and John. “In my defence, it only caused a very small fire.”

Kingsley attempted a smile that he hoped communicated both “Happens to the best of us” and “I am not getting an erection while thinking about your underwear right now, I swear” and took out his earring before placing it in the box along with his boots, his belt, and the little bronze marker. 

Scrimgeour consulted his book again and then drew his wand and began an invocation. The words he chanted weren’t Latin. Old English maybe, Kingsley thought, and though he had an academic interest in the proceedings, it was getting difficult to concentrate on anything but the maddening and growing itch of arousal. He really wanted to kiss someone. 

Strands of light swept from the chalk circle, following the provocative flick of Scrimgeour’s wand and adhering themselves to the walls like cobwebs. Kingsley licked his lips, uncomfortably reminded of the three-month period at age thirteen when he kept getting hard in Charms class.

“Auror McKinnon,” Scrimgeour said. “Precautions and preventatives, if you will?”

McKinnon looked entirely too gleeful at the request. It was a familiar expression, and given that she was the department’s de facto coroner and administrator of first aid and anti-tetanus potions, Kingsley had learned to be wary of that smile. Slowed by the novelty of the situation and the heavy-headed feeling the potion had set upon him, however, he subsequently found himself at the head of a short queue with his balls at wand-point. 

"I hope you weren't planning on impregnating anyone or passing on a social disease for the next 48 hours," McKinnon said.

"Er," Kingsley said, inhaling the sweet and distracting scent of her perfume, "not for the next 48 hours, no."

She smiled. "Good. This won't hurt a bit."

He only barely heard Moody mutter, "That's because it'll hurt a lot," before a sharp pain shot through his privates.

His mouth fell open in undignified shock, and he barely refrained from whimpering as the jolt took its sweet time in fading to an echoing ache. Worryingly, his erection had barely flagged. 

"Good boy," she said and patted his cheek.

He would have liked to have blamed the blush that warmed his cheeks entirely on the potion, but if he were being honest, he’d had the same reaction the last time she gave him his yearly physical. The tea boys weren’t the only ones with a weakness for her very tall boots and mild sadism.

"Who's next? Come on, Alastor. Take one for the team."

"One’s somewhere in Norfolk and the other’s salted earth.”

“It’s not the fecundity of your bollocks I’m worried about. It’s the fact that the last time we were called out to the Siren and Satyr, everyone knew you by your Christian name.”

Robards and Emmeline laughed, but Kingsley only managed a faint chuckle, diverted by the amount of self-restraint it took not to adjust himself. He hadn’t been this desperately, persistently hard since he was a teenager. He leaned against the wall to steady himself and stole glances at the others, trying to gauge whether he was being inordinately affected. 

“They’re professionals,” Moody was saying as McKinnon made her way down the queue. “They’re certainly cleaner than that last git you were seeing—“

“If we can all behave like grown-ups, ladies and gentlemen,” Scrimgeour interrupted, “we’ll be home all the sooner.”

To Kingsley’s relief, there proved to be a dark red flush on Robards’ cheeks. Emmeline had undone the top two buttons on her robes and was currently stroking her collarbone in a distracted and distracting manner. John was standing at the table, positioned at an odd angle that was familiar to anyone who’d ever been a schoolboy with a hard-on. McKinnon kept licking her lips, which was making Kingsley think very unprofessional things about her mouth, and Moody...all right, Moody had a hand down the front of his trousers. 

The lamps were soon snuffed out, leaving only the eerie glow of the chalk to light the room. Kingsley heard the sound of clothing dropping to the floor. He couldn’t see more than an inch in front of him, which tempered his embarrassment and made peeling off his own clothes an unreserved relief. He felt like he was burning up, his skin itchy and his cock almost miserably hard. The cool air felt delicious on his naked body, and he knew he was far gone when he gave in and touched himself.

He followed the awkward shuffle into the circle and sank down with a rush of vertigo. The chill of the stone floor permeated the blankets, in stark contrast to the hot, naked skin that brushed against his own. The circle was more than wide enough for seven adults to fit without crossing its boundaries, but there was no escaping the casual bump of hands and feet and elbows as they negotiated the space between themselves.

Kingsley sat uncertainly in the darkness, wondering how he was supposed to proceed. Then he heard the sound of slow kisses somewhere to his left, and he saw the light begin to spread out. The floor immediately seemed to lose some of its chill. Curious, he insinuated a finger between the blankets, touching the bare stone and feeling it grow undoubtedly warmer as the kissing multiplied. 

From a few feet away, McKinnon let out a sigh that sounded halfway between exasperated and aroused. “Merlin’s balls, Alastor. What is it with you and tits when you’re on Mandragora? You don’t even like women—”

Her moan made Kingsley’s entire body twitch.

The blankets shifted. Someone moved closer to him and tentatively touched his arm. The contact made gooseflesh spring up.

“Er, sorry,” John whispered. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Kingsley nearly laughed at the absurdity of the situation. John’s tone struck him as the sort you used when you were at Hogwarts and you ran into another student at some social affair outside of school, someone you weren’t really friends with but who at least was your own age. It was a tone that meant “I know we don’t usually do this, but I don’t really know anyone else here.”

“No,” he said, fairly certain his cock was going to break off if he didn’t touch someone. “It’s fine.”

Their mouths found each other clumsily. John tasted of bitter coffee, and he needed a shave, but that was all right. Kingsley pulled him close, cupping his jaw, nuzzling his cheek. Friction was good. Friction was really good. Some small part of his brain not engaged in whispering _sexohyespleasenowplease_ made note of the light creeping further out from the circle, spreading across the floor and up the walls like frost on a cold morning window. He still couldn’t see much more than vague shapes and shadows inside the circle, and yet the pattern of chalk-light was seared into his pupils when he closed his eyes. 

John’s hands were on his hip and shoulder. And then someone else’s hand was on his back. Someone else’s hand was groping at his thigh. It took him a moment to notice when John’s mouth left his own, so distracted was he by the feeling of warm lips smudging kisses down his stomach. John? No. Longer hair. Broader shoulders. He tried to put the puzzle pieces together, but the sensation drove any higher thought from his mind. The room seemed to have tilted, or maybe he had reclined, and he could no longer tell his left from his right. 

A firm hand wrapped around his cock, making his breath catch in grateful surprise. Then, to his blessed relief, a mouth slid wetly over him, sucking hungrily. The pleasure of it cut through the heavy haze, sharp and keen. His ragged breathing was lost in the fray, swallowed up by the wave of obscene sounds that were filling the room. Panting. Quiet cries. The smack of lips and skin. A low grunt of effort. All of it seven-fold, mingling, twining around itself until it was nearly a palpable caress.

He reached out blindly, his fingertips brushing a damp thigh. His hand crept higher, his head swimming with the uncertainty of exactly whom he was touching. Wet juices and soft curls. Hot, silky skin and a swollen clit that he carefully stroked. 

Behind him, he heard the slap of two or more bodies moving hard together. A strangled curse, and then a flurry of _yesyesyeses_.

His sense of time narrowed to the needs of his body. There was no telling how long he managed to last, his cock at the mercy of a generous mouth and two of his fingers buried in a hot, dripping quim. When he came, the light flared, twinkling as it crept higher up the walls, spiralling, or maybe it was the room that was slowly turning...

The first spending took the edge off, but it didn’t take long for his blood to start thrumming again. Within what felt like a few minutes, he was hard again and frotting against the blankets, his head held between clasping thighs and his lips and cheeks and chin smeared with salty juices. Fingernails dug into his shoulders, and someone stroked the backs of his legs before urging them apart. Moody. The thought was only a wisp, but the rough hands were unmistakable. The cock that slotted between his thighs was thick and almost burning hot. The knot of a scar rubbing against him. Heavy breathing against his neck.

Kingsley moaned softly as the fingernails dug in again and a high, soft cry drifted down to him. He was ground against the tangled blankets with every thrust of Moody’s cock, nudged just right and breathlessly chasing a second spending as sweat dripped down his back.

“Go on,” Moody whispered to him, grunting low and dirty with every hard rock of his hips. “Go on.”

Kingsley did. His voice came out in a stutter as he shot again, feeling the floor burn hot beneath him and the room close in around him. He was held tight between two bodies as he shook, pinned down and clutched and willingly used until his wits were recovered.

He lost track of how many times he came after that. He strongly suspected he never softened at all as the air became heavier and hotter, directing him like a current and bearing him helplessly from arms to mouth and hands to sex. His peaks grew indistinct, a throbbing pleasure shallowly cresting and falling over and over again as he entangled himself with whoever would have him. The smell of sweat and come was everywhere, and the voices melted into one, only distinguishable into owner or word when he gathered all his focus. 

_“Oh, like that...”_

_“...harder...”_

_“...please…”_

_“...put your back into it!”_

Kingsley was sucking someone’s cock as if his life depended on it. The taste and smell of a woman’s spending lingered on the hot flesh and coarse curls, and the combination made him dizzy. His stomach and loins ached, hungry and strained. Whoever he was sucking off was stroking his neck and shoulders, murmuring something in an oddly soothing tone. 

The lights were spinning like a carousel around him. The entire room was a silver blur, shining and very nearly humming with its own brilliance. Every inch of Kingsley’s skin was humming as well, and he let loose a muffled cry of near-pain when he was urged to a final peak, someone’s hand wrenching a dry orgasm for him and leaving him shuddering and hardly able to breath. 

The hands on his shoulders tightened as a bitter rush flooded his mouth. He swallowed it down and then drew back with a small, defeated hum.

He was done. It was all he could bear. He rolled limply onto his back and stared up at the twinkling lights, feeling something of himself rising up to join the silver glow. He closed his eyes and listened as the others wrung out the last of their pleasure, the moans and whimpers dying down a little at a time until a chorus of rough breathing was all that remained.

Kingsley tried to speak, but he found he couldn’t quite gather the coordination or the saliva or the intelligence to. 

“We good?” someone else eventually said, voice hoarse. Robards, he identified after a moment. 

“That should, indeed, take care of things,” Scrimgeour said breathlessly, directly above him.

At which point Kingsley realised that his head was pillowed on his boss’s thigh. His tongue rolled dryly around his mouth, tasting what lingered. He sat up weakly, swaying. He soon became aware of more than one person leaving the circle, and he heard the sound of clothes being retrieved. Getting to his feet took a worrying expenditure of energy. He staggered outside the circle and picked at the nearest pile, coming up with a pair of knickers and realising he wasn’t anywhere near where he had started out. 

The light that coated the walls was enough to finally orient himself by. He gently collided with Emmeline on the way to his robes, and she gave him a gentle shove. They all dressed, backs turned discreetly, and then the lamps came back on. 

Kingsley blinked. The wards faded in the lamplight, disappearing into the stone, but he could still feel the warmth of them beneath his feet, and then under his hand when he curiously touched the wall. Everyone was dishevelled and flushed. Emmeline’s hair had come down, loose around her shoulders. Robards’, rather worse for wear, appeared to have come in it.

There was a short, awkward pause, and then: 

“Who’s joining me at the pub?” Moody asked loudly.

“Shower first,” McKinnon said, stretching up on her tip-toes and rolling her neck. “Then I need a drink. Or four.”

Kingsley spotted John already edging towards the door and politely looked away.

“I need more hot water than this place can muster,” Robards said. “I’m apparating straight home if there's nothing else, Rufus.”

“No, go ahead,” Scrimgeour said. Of those assembled, he looked the least worse for wear, already replacing his spectacles and straightening his robes. “I’ll take care of the On-Premises Conjuring report.”

“Could we make it food?” Emmeline asked. “I’m famished.”

Kingsley’s stomach growled at that, although he wondered how he was going to chew anything. His jaw was remarkably sore.

“Shacklebolt wanted to bring a bottle of wine,” Moody said, “so he’s buying the first round. Dinner’s on me.”

“Chinese,” McKinnon said. “I could murder a beef chow fun.”

Kingsley put on his boots and was delayed by the effort of getting his earring back in as the others filed out in search of the nearest showers. He started after them and then paused, looking back over his shoulder. Scrimgeour, still rather rumpled but back to full force of intimidation, was testing the wards and making notes in his little book. It wasn’t anywhere near Kingsley’s place to insist or even suggest that his superior officer come out for a meal, but after a moment’s hesitation, he fished out the pack of biscuits he’d never got to at tea, and he left them on the table before slipping out. They weren’t orchids, but shortbread never went amiss.

He called the lift back down and fidgeted a little as he waited, in sticky need of a good scrub. All in a day's work, he reflected, and he grinned despite himself. Inarguably odd though it could be at times, he really did have the best job in the world.


End file.
